


Jason's First Christmas

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Blood, Christmas, First Christmas, Gen, Gen Batfam Christmas Stocking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd is Robin, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Movie Night, Platonic Cuddling, Sickfic, bfcs2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: It's Jason's first Christmas. All of them.Created to fill Cylobaby27's BatFam Christmas Stocking prompt "Jason’s first Christmas back at the manor." When writing this fic, I could only remember "Jason's first Christmas" and was too lazy to look up the details/made a deliberate artistic choice, so I decided to hit all the bases. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯





	Jason's First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starknjarvis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknjarvis/gifts).



It was Jason’s first Christmas without Willis, and though he didn’t know it yet, it was the beginning of the end.

Willis had been an abusive deadbeat, but he’d at least kept enough cash in the apartment that Jason and Catherine could float the rent every month. Not anymore. They’d lost the apartment. Lost the janky little fourth-hand dresser that had held all Jason’s clothes. Lost the fridge that rattled like an airliner coming in for a landing. Lost the couch with its busted springs and his name sharpied under the left seat cushion. Lost anything that couldn’t be stuffed into a trash bag or slung over their shoulders.

Jason felt like he’d lost his mom somewhere along the way, too.

“Hey, Mom,” he whispered as he crawled onto the cot next to Catherine. “I got something for you.”

Catherine hummed softly. It was enough for Jason. He dove under the thin sleeping bag and tucked himself in her arms. She was too skinny. He could feel every single one of her ribs, see the beat of her pulse fluttering in her neck. It took his breath away.

Jason wrapped the scarf, his present to her, around her neck as gently as he could manage. The plaid fabric was itchy, but it was warm, and that’s all he had cared about as he smuggled it out of the thrift store under his shirt.

Catherine didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t smile up at him and tell him that she loved the gift. Didn’t tell him that he was the best gift she could ever ask for. But he thought that her shivering slowed some, that maybe some of the lines around her mouth eased. That would have to be good enough.

He wished he could have gotten her a coat. He wished he could have gotten her a house. He wished… Jason’s fingertips traced the scars pocking the path of her veins. He wished a lot of things.

Tomorrow, he would head down to the corner bodega and see if he could trade a few hours stocking shelves for some food. If not, he’d just grab what he could and run. Tomorrow, he’d check the shelters again to see if a bed had opened up. Even if there was only one, it’d be worth it if his mom could have it. Tomorrow…

Jason sighed. He was too tired to think about tomorrow, too exhausted in the marrow of his bones, too empty in the pit of his stomach. Tomorrow’s worries would wait.

He tucked his cold nose into the hollow of his mom’s collarbone and sucked in a breath of cold sweat, body odor, and the faintest hint of lavender still clinging to her skin.

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

* * *

It was Jason’s first Christmas at the Manor. A new beginning.

That’s what Jason tried to tell himself, anyways. After all, he was warm, right? He had a roof over his head. Food in his belly. Clothes on his back. Heck, he even had a gift for Bruce that he didn’t have to steal. Allowance—turned out that wasn’t just a thing from sitcoms.

But at least when his mom skipped out on Christmas, she’d had an excuse. What was Bruce’s?

Jason scowled at the towering Christmas tree and resisted the urge to give one of the foil-wrapped presents a hard kick. He was being stupid, he knew. Bruce Wayne didn’t owe him anything. If anything, the debt flowed the other way. And it wasn’t like he’d expected a Hallmark movie Christmas morning. But was it too much to expect the man to come downstairs at some point?

“Master Jason.”

Jason still jumped every time the butler said his name. The old man was too quiet, and his mustache was judgey. Jason pivoted on the ball of his foot, turning slowly until he was facing Alfred.

Here it came. The excuses. The pandering. He knew these rich types, always making their underlings cover for them. And Alfred, scary as he was, was an alright guy. He’d offer to make sugar cookies or something equally cutesy, and Jason would have to play along so Bruce wouldn’t hear about it and feel bad later.

“Master Bruce sends his deepest apologies.”

_Shocker._

“He has been up most of the night with a high fever and vomiting.”

_What?_

“He is sorry to have missed the Christmas festivities but hopes to make it up to you soon.”

Bruce was sick? Bad sick? Vomiting could mean all kinds of stuff, and a high fever could be real bad, right? Like, hospital bad. Like, brain damage bad.

Jason’s palms suddenly felt slick, and he wiped them on his pants as he said, “I didn’t know he was sick. Is he okay? Did a doctor take a look at him?”

What if something happened to Bruce? What would happen to Jason? Did that make him an awful person, worrying about himself when Bruce was in danger? Oh god, he _was_ an awful person, grouching over a late Christmas when Bruce was upstairs barfing his brains out.

The fine lines at the corners of the butler’s eyes deepened. It was as close as Jason had seen him come to a smile.

“It seems to be a twenty-four hour bug. The fever has broken, and he was able to keep down some thin soup. He is, however, very distressed to have ruined your first Christmas together.” Alfred tilted his head thoughtfully. “If you would like to visit him, it may help him feel better still.”

“Oh. Oh, uh, yeah, I can…” Jason scuffed his foot against the thick rug and grimaced. “You sure? I don’t wanna be in the way.”

That was declared “nonsense” and Jason soon found himself standing in Bruce Wayne’s doorway. Jason felt another flicker of panic at the base of his throat. Bruce looked awful. He was still a huge dude, but he looked small in that big bed with his hair all flat and sweaty and dark circles under his eyes. He looked nothing like Jason’s mom. And yet.

“Jay.” Bruce had opened his eyes and was now waving weakly at the boy in the doorway.

Jason looked up at Alfred, who gave him a gentle push between the shoulder blades.

“Uh, hey, B,” Jason said once he was at the bedside. “You look like crap.”

The words were out before Jason could reel them back in, and he winced. Bruce huffed an exhausted-sounding laugh. “Thanks. I’ve felt better.”

Bruce shifted in the bed, tugging at the pillow behind his head before settling back again with a sigh. “I’m sorry about Christmas. I wanted it to be a good day for you.”

Jason’s mouth was dry. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Yes, the day had sucked, but now he knew it wasn’t Bruce’s fault. He wanted to fix it somehow, to show that he was okay. Because Bruce might be a crazy-rich dude with a cosplay fetish, but he was also a nice guy.

“If… I mean, if you’re feeling… I… You wanna watch a movie?” The words came out in a sputter and then in a rush. Jason sniffed and scratched the back of his head. He was doing better at not taking back his offers the moment they left his lips. Not perfect or anything, but better.

Bruce’s eyes opened a fraction wider, studying Jason’s face. “Yes,” he said at last. “I would like that. Thank you.”

Some of the tension left Jason’s spine. “Okay. Good. Uh, what do you want to watch?”

“Here you are, sir.”

Jason’s knees bumped the side of the bed as he skittered away from Alfred. That butler got him every freaking time. Jason didn’t look at Bruce, but he could feel the man’s dry amusement crackling off of him like heat from an oven. Jason took the offered VHS—one he was certain Alfred had _not_ been holding a moment ago, creepy old man—and flipped it over to study the cover image.

“Is this a chick flick?” Jason asked dubiously. The movie did not look promising. Sure, the guy had a sword, but the biggest image was of a lady in a tiara. And it was about a _princess_ getting _married_.

Bruce choked back a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You were so close to asking the right question there, Jay. Trust me on this one, okay? It’s the best sick-day movie.”

Jason grumbled but handed the video back to Alfred and climbed up on the bed next to Bruce, careful to keep a hand’s width between them. Crossing his legs, he leaned forward slightly, eyes trained on the screen as the movie started, the beeping of an old-fashioned video game playing over a shot of a child’s room. He didn’t notice as Alfred slipped out of the room.

By the time the man in black was scaling the Cliffs of Insanity, Jason was curled up against Bruce’s side, his neck and head braced against the big man’s shoulder. He gasped as Vizzini sliced through the rope and let it fall over the edge of the cliff. Next to him, Bruce chuckled quietly, his chest rumbling deep and low like a cat’s purr.

“Merry Christmas, Jason,” Bruce murmured, barely audible over the accented banter on the screen.

“Shhhh,” Jason hissed, but he smiled.

* * *

It was Jason’s first Christmas back in Gotham, and he still wasn’t sure if he was living in a recycled beginning or an overextended ending.

He was cold. That was nothing new. He was always cold now. But Gotham itself was cold, which only pushed the aching chill deeper into his bones. Jason hunched his shoulders against the wind and thought of the desert. The blazing sun. The scorching sand. The withering wind. A pair of green eyes floated across his thoughts, and he turned away.

Jason flicked his lighter once, twice. The flame caught, held, and he lifted it to the cigarette dangling between his lips. The smoke curled down his throat. He held it there, relishing the ache. He’d thought of stopping. Had tried a couple times as a kid, once he’d gotten himself off the streets. Ironically, given her own hangups, he’d always felt a little guilty, wondering what his mom would think of his vice.

It didn’t matter. His mom was dead, cold in the ground. And he was dead, cold but still walking around.

Jason shivered and dragged in another lungful of smoke before flicking the cigarette away.

Somewhere out there, the Bat and his chirpy little flock were celebrating Christmas. The golden child was part of the family again, so they were probably at the Manor. The decorations would all be hung, the halls glittering with silver and gold. The tree, a big one, so tall it nearly scraped the vaulted ceiling, would be twinkling with lights of every color. There would be food, a whole spread of Alfred’s best, delicious and hot from the oven. Presents. Laughter. One big happy family.

Jason wondered what movie they’d watch after the meal.

He didn’t wonder if they thought of him. They wouldn’t. His holiday was two months past, with nothing holy about it. He doubted he had even crossed their minds.

Well. He’d change that.

Jason scooped up his helmet and put it back on. The fumes were making him feel lightheaded. He surveyed the room once more, grimly satisfied with his work. The red arterial spray on the wall added a festive touch, he thought.

He flicked the lighter again. Bent. Touched the flame to the glistening streak on the floor. The fire raced down the trail of gasoline, crackling merrily as it crawled over the bodies and up the wall. Jason closed his eyes as the heat beat against his face. The cold coiled tighter in his chest.

_Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas, B._

* * *

It was Jason’s first Christmas sober. That was what it felt like anyways. He could still feel the Pit just beneath his skin, like an itch on his arch of his foot with his shoe still on. The pull was still there. The urge to lash out. To run wild. To destroy. The temptation remained. But he was resisting. Maybe, finally, this was his fresh start. Maybe this was his new beginning.

He popped a fry into his mouth, then stiffened as someone slid into the booth across from him. His mind scrambled for her name, her real name. It was something perky and ponytailed like Kimberly or Tiffany. They’d only met once or twice out of masks, and it took him a moment to place her.

“What’re you doing here, Stephanie?” Jason asked, voice low. It wasn’t quite a growl, but close.

“Dinner,” Stephanie answered, as if it were obvious. She pushed back the purple hood of her sweatshirt and pulled her blonde ponytail out of her collar as she smiled up at the approaching waitress. “I’m starving. Can I get uhhhhhhhhhhh…”

Jason ground his teeth. He hadn’t expected his Pit sobriety to be tested in a rundown 50s-style diner on the border of respectable Gotham. Not over an order for a Snickers milkshake, of all things.

As soon as the waitress stepped away, he leaned forward across the table and demanded, “Did they send you here?” It was something Bruce would do, send his little minion to check on him at Christmas.

“Who?” Stephanie asked. “Oh, you mean Bruce? Nah. I’m here for the pie.”

She leaned in as well, making Jason straighten, but she just reached out and snagged one of his fries. “Have you had their pie? The cherry pie especially. It’s all great, don’t get me wrong, but I could sculpt myself a second body out of that cherry pie.”

“You didn’t order pie,” Jason pointed out. “And that doesn’t explain why you’re sitting here.”

Stephanie shrugged and plucked another fry before Jason could stop her. Dang, she was fast.

“My mom’s working a double. For the holiday pay, you know. It sucks, but it’s worth it for the extra money. There’s no one at home, so I came down here for the pie, and I saw you.” Another shrug, then she sat back to make room as the waitress returned with the shake she’d ordered. “It’s Christmas. Seems wrong to sit alone on Christmas.”

Jason didn’t know how to argue with that, not without being nastier than he had the energy to be right now, so he didn’t. He expected her to chatter away throughout the entire meal, but was pleasantly surprised to find long, comfortable silences amid pockets of companionable small talk. He was pretty sure she slurped her milkshake like that on purpose, though.

Turns out they’d grown up within ten blocks of each other as kids and still knew some of the same people. Jason hadn’t realized how much he kept locked away in the slots of his spine until he had someone who could relate. He felt himself relaxing back against the tacky plastic seat as Stephanie talked about pick-up basketball games, eating churros on the library steps, and that one barking dog that had scared the snot out of every kid in the neighborhood at least once.

He was, to his own surprise, disappointed when the waitress returned with a to-go box of pie and Stephanie rose to her feet. She pulled a crumpled wad of bills from her back pocket, counted out what was needed, and placed it on the table.

“You know, even if they’d asked, I wouldn’t have come.”

Jason looked up, his attention hungry and sharp once more.

Stephanie looked down at him, at ease but sober. “I’m not B’s hunting dog. I don’t fetch. Besides, I know what it’s like.”

“To be hunted?” Jason asked, a tingle beginning in his fingertips.

“To want in so bad for so long that the wanting goes rotten in your mouth.” A smile, thin and bittersweet, flickered at the corners of her mouth. “Keep spitting it out. You’ll get clean eventually.”

Jason stared, considering. Wondering. Where did Bruce find kids like them? Kids with bruises on their knuckles and poetry in their chests. Kids so hungry to belong that their teeth turned inward. How do you even go about finding kids like that?

Stephanie’s smile brightened. Blossomed. “Merry Christmas, Jason. Same time next year?”

Her laughter was still ringing in his ears as she stepped out into the snowy night.

* * *

“Aw, geez. He…”

“Careful. Watch his…”

“Hold on, Jay. We…”

It was all happening very far away. Jason was aware of the world around him only vaguely. The foggy notion that there were people around him, when there shouldn’t be people at all. The hum of overlapping voices. A hand against his forehead, and another bracing his neck. The thought that he felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The concern that perhaps he had been.

He was too tired to care.

He felt his body lifting. Being carried? Floating? Dying?

He remember dying feeling much worse than even this, but it was possible. He didn’t think he could stop it, anyways.

As Jason slipped into unconsciousness, the last thing he recognized was the subtle scent of Bruce’s cologne.

When he woke again, dazed and faintly surprised to not be dead, the smell was still there. Jason’s eyes fluttered then dragged themselves open to blink around blearily. The space was dimly lit, hazy, and indistinct, but it didn’t matter. He would know the blurred shape of Bruce’s room anywhere.

A hand settled on his arm, warning him of the presence of another person before Bruce’s face appeared in his vision.

“B?” Jason rasped. “What…”

The hand squeezed gently, warning him to wait, and then a glass appeared in front of his face. Jason caught the straw between his lips and drank until his thirst was quenched and his throat was soothed.

“You’re on some painkillers. And you lost a lot of blood,” Bruce warned. Typical that his first words would be a scold. 

“I did?” That sounded… like something that would happen to him. Jason couldn’t really remember. He remembered feeling like he’d been run over. He still felt like that, but like there was padding between him and the pain.

“You did,” Bruce confirmed. “You were stabbed. Twice. And then decided to hole up in a safe house and pass out without telling anyone.”

Oh. Ohhhhh. Jason did remember something like that. He didn’t remembering _deciding_ to pass out, but the rest…

“How did you know to look for me?” Jason reached gingerly with one hand and wiped the sticky sleep from his eyes. His hand seemed to move in lag time, stuttering slowly across his vision. He hated pain meds so much.

“You missed brunch with Alfred. He was concerned.”

Jason dropped his hand to blink slowly at Bruce. “But that’s tomorrow.”

“That was three days ago,” Bruce corrected. “You were out for over a day, just based on your wound. We brought you back here two days ago to rest and heal.”

Jason digested the news for a moment. “Oops?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, a weirdly comforting gesture. If Bruce was able to roll his eyes, it must not be too bad. Jason owed Alfred a make-up brunch and an apology, though.

Then the mathematics of what Bruce had said clicked into place.

“It’s Christmas?”

“It is.” Bruce tilted his head and eyed Jason speculatively. “I told the others not to come up until I called, but it would do them good to see you, if you’re up to it. They were worried.”

Jason hummed, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just them, though, right?” he teased.

Bruce rolled his eyes again and knocked a knuckle against Jason’s cheekbone. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed. By a rhino.” Jason rubbed his eyes again, fighting against the drugs and the weariness that came from blood loss. He wanted to feel like himself again. He wanted to enjoy Christmas.

“Let me get—“ Jason began to sit up, then grunted as the pain in his side sharpened and punched its way through his drugged haze.

Bruce was there, a bracing hand on Jason’s back, another on his chest. “Easy, Jay-lad, easy.”

Jason coughed out a wheezing laugh. “I guess getting up is out. Stupid way to spend Christmas, stuck in bed.”

Bruce pursed his lips together and grunted thoughtfully. “Perhaps not.”

A half hour later, the room had changed. Jason had been carefully moved to the center of the bed and propped up with as many soft pillows as Alfred could find. His siblings, once the signal had been given, flooded the room in their riotous array of fuzzy pajama bottoms, winter-themed socks, and oversized Christmas sweaters. They had flung themselves across Bruce’s king-sized bed, careful not to jostle Jason but also, he noticed, careful to casually stay within reach. Jason expected this from Dick and Cass, both touch-affectionate under normal circumstances, but even Damian and Tim had seemed to orbit closer than normal.

In the spaces not occupied by bodies were trays of snack foods, including easily digestible soup for Jason. To Jason’s undisguised delight, Alfred had brought up the nibbles and then uncharacteristically had settled in one of the chairs by the bedside after giving Jason’s hand a pat.

“What is this?” Jason asked. “Why are you all here? Is someone dying? Am I dying?”

“Shut up,” Dick replied mildly as he stretched. “It’s Christmas.”

“Rude,” Cass agreed. Jason made a face at her, which she returned with equal grotesquery.

“Richard says that you risk the muscles in your face freezing that way if you contort it so,” Damian announced. “Not that there would be much change for either of you. In fact, it may be an improvement.”

Tim snorted and burrowed further into the snuggie he had carried in with him.

“It’s tradition.” Bruce had reappeared, TV remote in hand, body clad in an old t-shirt and sweatpants.

“What is?” Jason was genuinely confused now, even more so when Bruce nudged Damian aside.

Bruce settled himself the bed next to Jason, his weight making the mattress dip and Jason lean into his shoulder.

“Sick day Christmas movie.” Bruce tucked an arm around Damian, then rested the other behind Jason. It was a sensible move, a good way to support an injured body on a crowded bed. Jason tried not to read too much into it. A hard thing when he felt like a kid again for the first time in years

Jason’s foggy brain didn’t latch onto the television until the familiar beeping of a child’s video game emanated from a dark screen. He’d know those sound effects anywhere.

“Aw sweet,” Jason whispered.

Next to him, Bruce’s chest rumbled, vibrating with a barely audible laugh.

“Hey B,” came the whisper.

“Mm,” returned the low grunt.

“If I fall asleep before Miracle Max, wake me up?”

“As you wish.”

It was Jason’s first Christmas back at the Manor, and it was only the end of a new beginning.


End file.
